Like cats and dogs
by I'm Nova
Summary: For the'change' prompt on sherlockchallenge. In a world of shapeshifters, Sherlock is a cat shifter having to deal with mostly shifters of the canine ilk. Their relationship can be rocky...or, surprisingly, not so much. Possibly pre-slash, but still considered romance because of my goggles. Dedicated to my awesome beta, Chrythwyn. You rock, love!


_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. This is for my very put-upon beta, Chrwythyn, to whom I always ask to look over things in a rush (this too, more than most – sorry, love!)._

Like cats and dogs

It's not speciesism, really. It's just a fact. Shifters often tend to pick a job according to their instincts. Bird shifters are in the media. Some specific reptiles opt for firefighting (others for arson, so it sort of balances out). Dog shifters make up almost half the police. The ability to work in a group and to relentlessly pursue their prey ensures that not many cases go unsolved.  
Then, of course, there are the cases where no amount of tireless work will be enough. The cases that are time-sensitive, or political, or otherwise need to be solved yesterday. In these cases, Lestrade has no choice. He calls in Sherlock.

The problem is, 'that damned panther' as Anderson dubbed him – "Melanistic cheetah, please, it might not be entirely wrong, but most panthers are leopards who couldn't solve a Ravensburger puzzle," his consultant always corrects – despite his species being supposedly tameable, will always sprint away to follow whatever clues he has noticed. The word 'teamwork' simply doesn't seem to be in his vocabulary. That his relationship with his temporary colleagues ends up mostly being composed of hisses and growls is unsurprising. And it doesn't help Lestrade's chronic headache. If he had another option, he would take it. But refusing out of stubbornness to have a case resolved in a handful of hours, if lives are at stake, should be criminal in its own right.

When Sherlock brings someone else along for the first time, Greg is shocked to see he's a canid-type. He would peg him for a husky, but of course, the man doesn't shift at a crime scene, so judging can be a bit hard. When his consultant speeds off leaving the poor lost soul behind (Donovan will let the whole office know about it for at least a week), the DI sighs and expects the flatsharing – when he learns about it – to be over in a fortnight at most. There's simply no way for the sleuth to accommodate anyone's needs but his own.

Much to the policeman's surprise, John sticks around instead. And then the unthinkable happens: Sherlock bloody Holmes turning around to make sure his companion is indeed behind him. The cheetah adjusting his pace. The 'good doctor' being unofficially promoted to Lestrade's previous role of herder of the consulting detective. Frankly, Greg is all too happy to relinquish the duty. It's hard enough making sure that none of his men will lash out and try to ambush the obnoxious git. He doesn't need to be trying vainly to make his consultant behave too. Though he's curious about how John manages it…on another note, he's pretty sure that he doesn't want to know.

The inspector would be very shocked to learn that John can obtain the sleuth's compliance…by not asking him to change. Everyone else (especially the police) expect him to behave like yet another canine. To understand and adhere to pack rules. Well, cheetahs (unlike, for example, tigers) do have some form of organisation. It's called a coalition, and the very name might have prompted Mycroft's political career. But they are not dogs and won't behave like them. And the fact is – John doesn't mind.

The blogger doesn't try to enforce his dominance (as if Sherlock would listen to orders!), and mostly ignores the experiments in the kitchen and the nightly concerts. He might grumble, sure, but all his actual complaints are either about safety – and you don't need to be a consulting detective to realise that these come from caring – or a request for different timing. Which is a good compromise, at that.

Not "stop being you", but "maybe blurt it out when idiots aren't around to fuss about it". Sure, the detective likes to ignore everyone who doesn't count (aka most people on Earth). Still, refraining from announcing his deductions or opinions aloud in exchange for sharing whatever observation he made with a smiling, enthusiastic John later is a good deal.

So, if the doctor comes home from work to a lazy cat in his shifted form taking over all the sofa, who will claim later to be reorganising his mental palace but is very obviously napping in a ray of sun, he just smiles. He's not about to complain about the fur, even if Sherlock will never ever hoover. After all, he can be even worse some days.

And he can be because Sherlock is keen-eyed – and doesn't care. It was the very second day of their flatsharing that the sleuth asked, "Is your atrocious dress sense caused by your love of puns?"

John of course retorted, "What the fuck is this even about?"

"A wolf in sheep's clothing, you know…and your love of jumpers apparently out of grandpa's wardrobe," his flatmate had explained.

For a second, John paled. It was weird, how big cats could stroll around without a care, and have people give way, and wild canids would be glared at. He supposed that it all had historical reasons. Of course, it didn't help that somehow a few royal families were still of the feline ilk. Also, the very fact that cats didn't usually band together to slay the enemy had left less bad blood. Suffice to say, you didn't want to be outed as a wolf, especially in a dog-dominated environment. He didn't even need to ask Sherlock to keep that to himself, thankfully.

"Oh, it's not my place to tell anyone. If the police can't see what's right in front of their noses, it's not my fault. They find difficult enough to follow me when I'm telling them their cases' solutions. But if they can't figure out you have a wild streak simply from your putting up with me, I don't know what else could enlighten them," the consultant had huffed, before proceeding to shift and groom John, as if to declare the discussion closed. The blogger felt lucky not to have bounced off the ceiling.

Since then, anytime one of them feels like properly shifting (and they aren't required to catch a murderer or other scum), they just do. Sometimes, Mrs. Hudson will come up to bring biscuits and find them nestled together in front of the fire, the blond-and-silver streaks of John's fur contrasting with Sherlock's mostly-black coat. On these occasions, she leaves her offering and quietly tiptoes downstairs. Never, though, without taking a photo first – they're just too cute. Her collection, much to her delight, keeps growing.


End file.
